I Wait For You Always
by Hedda94
Summary: A story of how to cope with being broken and of how to cope with having to put everything back together. A story of what happened months after Sherlock took the final step over the roof ledge of Bartholomew Hospital. Rated M for possible future language...
1. Prologue

So I did a story a couple of months ago about John and Sherlock getting together. I said then that I might make a prequel one-shot about what I think will go down when Sherlock reveals that he's alive, and so I started this story. However, as it happens, I couldn't make it work as a one-shot, so it is now a several chapter story, this being the prologue. I imagine there will be about 3 or 4 chapters all together, but we'll see!

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**I Wait For You Always **

When you lose someone, you lose a piece of yourself. That's what people always say. A piece of your heart and your soul are torn out and you are left broken and bleeding. John Watson didn't agree. As he sat in the one-bedroom apartment he was renting in the outskirts of west London and thought about the saying, he couldn't agree less. Harry had said it once, he thought. When Clara had left her, and she was looking for an excuse for while she had started the second bottle of wine that day when he came to see how she was doing at 11 in the morning, she had said something like that. Admittedly it had been a bit hard to make it out since she was slurring and she would mumble "Clara" or "need something stronger than this Chardonnay shit" in the middle of sentences, but he had understood the gist of it. But what did Harry know? Clara had just moved four blocks away and they would have the occasional Facebook conversation before they eventually got back together. Harry had no idea what she was talking about. Because in the quiet apartment that was so lacking in life and the strumming of a violin and constant bickering and happiness John had grown used to over the past few years, he didn't feel half or torn apart. He felt empty. He felt, in the gloomy light of the kitchen/sitting area/hallway, like someone had taken a shovel and scraped his insides clean of anything resembling a heart or a soul anything what-so-ever. In a way, he was happy that he had turned into some kind of emotionless zombie, because, he figured, numbness was better than pain. He had done pain, and he didn't miss it. For weeks, maybe months, he had done pain. Horrible, agonizing, unbearable pain, and he didn't want it back. He didn't miss the public breakdowns or shouting at Mrs. Hudson over nothing or waking up in the middle of the night from body shaking sobs. He didn't want that back. Yet he didn't want the numbness, either. The seclusion and the fruitless meetings with his psychiatrist telling him he needed "closure" like there was some button he could push that would make everything better. At least she wasn't pushing blogging on him this time, but it all still reminded too much of the time after the war, before he had met Sherlock.

BS. Before Sherlock.

He didn't want that back either. He just wanted Sherlock back. That was what he wanted to tell Dr. Friedman every week as she asked him how he was doing and what he was feeling. "I WANT HIM BACK!" he wanted to shout at her and her stupid note pad and her stupid ballpoint pens. Because he didn't want closure, not at all. What the hell was he supposed to do with closure?

BS. Bullshit.

No, he just wanted Sherlock to not be dead and he wanted to pack up his things and move back to Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson and he wanted her to make them tea. He just wanted to be home. But nothing was home anymore. Even Baker Street, which had been the place where he had felt the most safe in his life despite the constant break-ins and murders, had become a never-ending, nightmarish memory of what he had lost. His home wasn't his home anymore because the key component in his security, in his life, really, had thrown himself off the roof of Bartholomew Hospital. The prick.

BS. Backstabber.

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**There you go! The first part is done! Now all that's left is for me to actually stick with this all the way (and I will , promise) and all shall be well. Feel free to review or favourite or just continue with your day (but reviewing sounds like more fun, right?) Bye!**


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

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The streetlights had just lit up, shedding a gloomy light over the people making their way home from work. One man was walking briskly and talking with equal speed, and with a raised voice, to someone on his phone. One woman was zigzagging among the people in her way as she stared into a handheld mirror, trying to put on a bright pink lipstick. There was, however, one person on the street who wasn't hustling and bustling in the early evening. This man was simply leaning against one of the houses with his hands in his pockets and a hat with peculiar earflaps pulled over his eyes. He thought of his disguise as quite humorous. It was practical as well, as he had found that people never pay attention to the things that are right in front of their eyes. Idiots. But the funny hat was also an ironic salute to that which had become so closely connected to the fame that brought him down. Too bad there was no one to share the joke with – this one was really quite something.

Now and then someone would glance twice as they passed him, _because doesn't that bloke look a whole lot like that private detective there was so much fuzz about a couple of months ago? Oh, you know! He threw himself off a building because some scheme he was in on got leaked to the media or something. It was all over the news!_

One girl even pulled her mother to a stop as they were passing and pointed at him.

"Mummy look, look! It's Sherlock Holmes, look! The one who was in all the papers, he's there!"

"Shirley, stop it. It's not him, now come on. Daddy's waiting with dinner."

"It is! Promise! Look he's wearing that funny hat like in the pictures. I promise it's him, mummy!" Finally, though, the woman pulled Shirley away with an apologetic look to the man with the funny hat. He didn't mind though. To be honest he wasn't paying attention to what people around him were saying or doing: he only had eyes for one thing: a window in the flat building across from him. It wasn't very light in the room that could be seen through it, but enough to show a man by the table. That was what he usually did, sit by the table and drink tea or read. He looked sad. Always. It would change the few times the sad man left the flat and was among other people. He would limp out the door with a completely blank face, so much harder and colder than when he sat in front of his window. The stone face was a mask of course. It was evident from the way clenched his hands and how he leaned on the cane he brought with him outside, that he was holding back. His whole body was straining to keep a straight face.

The man in the funny hat swiftly looked at his watch. Bunny was late. He took a few side steps to glance down the nearest alley, but it was empty. A lonely pigeon was picking at the contents of a trashcan, but no sign of Bunny. He walked back to his original spot to find the man in the window was speaking on the phone. It was a rare occurrence to see him interact with anyone, and perhaps it was good that he was getting some form of contact with the outside world. As had been pointed out to the man with the funny hat, _all_ people apparently need that. The man looked worried, however. From what could be seen in the dim light though the window, he was speaking slowly and carefully, brow knit.

"Watcha lookin' at?" came a voice from next to his right earflap. The man in the funny hat spun around to find Bunny leaning against the wall next to him, a bushy eyebrow raised in question. She gave him a crooked smile at the sight of his shocked face. "Evenin', Sherlock." Bunny was a young woman, probably mid-twenties, and one of his primary sources in the homeless network. He had met her when she was 18 and fairly new to the streets, asking if he had any coke, and over the years she had been an invaluable help in many of his cases.

"You're late," Sherlock stated, turning his eyes back to the window where the telephone call was just ended.

"Well, not all of us can afford watches," Bunny said defiantly and pushed herself off the wall. She followed Sherlock's gaze to the window where she could just catch a glimpse of a blonde man before he limped out of sight.

"There is a church exactly 32 feet from where you keep your box and it has a perfectly good clock," he said, and finally turned to face her. "Don't take me for a fool, you know better than that."

"Fine," Bunny scoffed. "I was-"

"It doesn't matter," Sherlock interrupted before she could make up a story that did not involve going down on some old man in the park for a pack of fags. "Do you have information?"

"Of course," Bunny said.

"Good. Now take this." Sherlock shoved a black device no bigger than a penny into her hand and turned back to the building across the street. Bunny examined the thing quickly and her expression darkened.

"A microphone? You're having me bugged now? No way! I ain't takin' that!" She was just about to throw the microphone to the ground, but Sherlock grabbed her wrist before she had the chance.

"It's not for you, Bunny, so be quiet," he said sternly. Making sure she would not get rid of the device, he carefully let her go. "A man with a cane will come out of that door across the street within the minute and I need you to slip this in his pocket and then meet me in the alley. Understood?"

Bunny blinked.

"Wait, how am I supposed to do that? There are people around," she said and Sherlock rolled his eyes without any subtlety. Idiots.

"Don't be daft. Just do it like when you pick someone's pockets, bump into them," he said and demonstrated a hard shove against her shoulder. Bunny was not reassured.

"You serious? Didn't you say he has a cane? You want me to _shove_ a cripple?" she asked incredulously but Sherlock simply groaned and closed her hand around the microphone.

"He's not actually a cripple. Now go!" he growled and pushed her into the street where she had to take a near superhuman jump to avoid a speeding Volkswagen before crossing completely. Sherlock leaned against the wall behind him and waited as Bunny positioned herself a few paces to the left of the intended door. The hand he knew was keeping the microphone was casually relaxed and had you not know there was something there you wouldn't suspect a thing. She was good.

As expected, not ten seconds later the door across from Sherlock opened and the man with the sad face, which was now, as expected, a stone face, appeared. He stopped on the landing and eyed the street up and down. He seemed to be waiting for someone, for a moment Sherlock whished that the stone-faced man would look across the street and see him. That he would throw his cane to the ground and run to him and hug him and everything would be all right again. And then suddenly, as if reading Sherlock's mind, the man looked up from the stairs he was descending and their eyes met. For a moment the hard mask vanished and was replaced by, what? Surprise? Sadness? Both, maybe? Sherlock was about to raise his hand to wave, not knowing what else to do, but then the man was down on the sidewalk and Bunny swooped in and gently collided with him and as she continued down the street with an offhand apology thrown over her shoulder, a car stopped in front of the man who tried to look over it, presumably where Sherlock was standing like a regular stalker, and a woman in a sleek skirt stepped out. Mycroft. An unexpected pain shot through him when the man behind the car broke their eye contact and turned to the new arrival and he watched on with a silly burning behind his eyelids as the man who was now once again wearing his mask of stone was brought into the car. After a quick scope down the street, seemingly ignoring Sherlock's presence, the woman flipped her hair smoothly over her shoulder and stepped in after the man and then they were gone.

Sherlock stayed for a minute watching after the car that had long since rounded the corner and disappeared out of sight. For one crazy moment he thought he might go up to the flat. Have some tea and wait for the man to come back, surprise him. But that's just what that was: crazy. With one last contemplative glance at the now dark window, Sherlock walked the short way to the alley where he had told Bunny to meet him. She was already there, poised on a container and stroking a cat that looked like it had had a very tough year. When it spotted Sherlock 's dark form it hissed in protest and jumped to take cover behind some bins, making a scuffed pigeon take to the sky in a fright. Sherlock had never been a fan of animals, or they of him.

"You're late," Bunny reprimanded with a smirk.

"Terribly amusing," he answered with a voice that clearly suggested the opposite. "Now, the information if you please."

"Who was he, then?" Bunny asked with a jerk of the head toward the street they had both come from, taking no notice of Sherlock's demand.

"No one. Now, please," he said impatiently but Bunny didn't budge. Swift as the cat that had occupied her lap earlier she leaped off the container to stand in front of him, arms crossed.

""Seems like a lot of trouble to go to for "no one"," she pressed. "Those microphones must be hard to get by. How much did you pay for it?"

"It wasn't simply a microphone, it was also a tracking device," Sherlock scoffed. "So rather expensive I should think." Bunny frowned.

"Tracking device? You mean like a GPS or something?" she asked and Sherlock rolled his eyes at her again. He wanted to get back to the bridge before it became completely dark, but he needed Bunny's information and for some reason Bunny wanted to be incredibly nosy.

"Yes, like a GPS," he confirmed, trying his best to sound calm and pleasant. It was not his strong suit. "Now Bunny, the information is-"

"Shouldn't you have some machine or something like that where you see where he is, then? If it's a GPS?"

"Bunny, please!" Sherlock finally shouted. It _really _wasn't his strong suit. His hands were itching to grab her and shake her, or something to that affect, to just get her to focus on what was important here and this did not include his ability to use a bloody GPS. "I do have a "machine" as you call it, it's here in my pocket. I just don't need to use it right now."

"Why-" but Bunny was interrupted by Sherlock pressing a firm hand over her mouth, silencing her before she had time to ask any more questions.

"Because I already know where he is going. Now, I'm going to remove my hand, and when I do I need you to tell me the information you came with. Are we clear?" Sherlock stared at her intently as she rolled her eyes, but mumbled a muffled "As crystal" into his palm. With a relieved sigh he removed his hand, as promised, and waited for Bunny to finish cussing about him stifling her rights, or something like that. He wasn't interested. When she was done, her face suddenly became deadly serious and with strength Sherlock did not know she possessed she pulled him deeper into the alley. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure that no one was there and then turned back to Sherlock with the same serious expression.

"You want the information, yes?" she asked.

"How ever did you know?" Sherlock answered dryly but Bunny pointedly ignored his sarcasm.

"You do know that I'm doing you a massive favour, right?"

"Yes."

"And that my friend, who is doing me a massiver favour-"

"More massive."

"Shut up. My friend is practically risking his life to get you this information. We clear?"

"Very."

"Good. Now, according to my friend, he has been spotted in Sicily…"

As Bunny recapped everything she had found out from her friend, Sherlock clicked on the tape recorder in his jacket pocket to be able to listen to it later. Not that he ever really forgot anything of this importance, but you can never be too safe.

* * *

_Jane Eyre_ was stupid. It was a stupid book with a stupid plot and a stupid central character and it was stupid, John concluded, slamming the book down on the table. Then he pushed it onto the floor, just for good measure. There it laid, pages splayed against linoleum, and the ridiculously pink cover staring up at him. The letters seemed to be glaring at him. He glared back. He then realized what a complete nut he was behaving like. He was having a stare-off with a book, for goodness' sake! A stupid book, but still simply a book. John didn't even really know what had made him pick it up in the first place. He was just so bored all the time. He was more than reluctant to take Molly up on her offer to take him out to lunch or brunch or whatever awful thing she suggested that week. He didn't want to be around people. People with their talking and their laughing and _blergh_. People were out of the question. Walking, which had been his greatest pastime when he had returned from Afghanistan had proven to be impossible, as his leg had become much worse than it had been then. So, all that was left was to stay in by himself, and all there was to do was read, and all there was to read on the tiny bookshelf in his flat was a Russian dictionary and Jane Eyre. Thus, he had started reading the pink monstrosity that was now looking at him accusingly from the floor. Maybe, he thought, he should switch to the dictionary. Learn Russian, become a dangerous spy, travel the world. That'd give him something to do. But instead he just got up and put the kettle on, making sure to give the stupid book a kick so it slid under the sofa on his way. There wasn't much tea left in the box, which meant that that John would have to make a run to the shop sooner than expected. Bollocks. He scraped up what he could off the bottom and dropped the strainer into the cup of steaming water and returned to the table. There he sat, taking down large gulps of tea and enjoying how the hot liquid burned his tongue. It felt nice to feel something.

It has started to get dark when he finished the last drop and stretched back to put the cup by the sink, which was an easy reach in his tiny flat. He was bored again. He sneaked a glance at the book lurking under the sofa but quickly snapped out of it. _Stupid_ book, he reminded himself. Instead he settled with staring at the swirly pattern on the wallpaper in front of him and starting a mental shopping list. Top of the list was tea, lots of it. His eyes were starting to blur and the swirls were moving around like smoke. Second on the list should probably be alcohol. John was suddenly jerked out of his planning and descent into madness, courtesy of the moving wall motifs, when his phone started ringing in his pocket.

"If this is Molly again…" he grumbled as he pulled out his cell and checked the display. It was not Molly.

"Hello?"

"Hello John," came a very familiar and very surprising voice.

"Mycroft?" John asked incredulously. "Is that you?"

"So it would appear." John was beyond confused. Before everything had changed, before everything had gone to hell and back and back to hell again Mycroft Holmes and John Watson had maintained semi-regular phone conversations, mainly regarding Sherlock's eating habits and sleeping patterns. Occasionally there would be some mild threatening, but they had always been on at least civil terms over the phone. That had stopped a long time ago. Mycroft had phoned a handful of times after Sherlock's death, once or twice about the funeral and then some short conversations about the will and the flat and this and that. After that John had stopped answering. Mycroft seemed to have gotten the hint quickly, and stopped calling. Until now.

"Um…" John stuttered, not sure how to act in this very unexpected situation, "hi?"

"I am in need of your assistance, John. A car is on its way to pick you up," Mycroft informed. There was a pause where John didn't know what to say and Mycroft presumably waited for some sort of response that John did not have. He didn't know how to carry out phone conversations with the Holmes boys. Sherlock always texted, _had_ always texted, and Mycroft was the bloody British government that hadn't contacted him in months.

"Why- why do you need my help?" John finally asked. There was a hint of an annoyed huff from the other end of the phone but Mycroft sounded as composed as ever.

"That is not important right now. The car will be waiting downstairs."

"Well, actually I'm a bit busy at the moment so…" John ventured, looking around his very uneventful flat. It wasn't a complete lie. He would have to go to the store at some point, and it closed in an hour so he really didn't have time to go out to wherever Mycroft wanted to take him. Really.

"John, I didn't want to tell you this over the phone, but it is of the utmost importance that you get in the car. It is an emergency." It was the word "emergency" that caught John's attention. Why would Mycroft be calling him about it? He had an entire military fleet at his disposal, so what could John possibly help with?

"But I-"

"Please, John" Mycroft pleaded. Yes, _pleaded_. Mycroft Holmes did not plead, at least not to John Watson. Something wasn't right.

"All right, I'll be right down," he said, already grabbing his jacket and cane and heading for the door. John pocketed his phone as he limped down the stairs as quickly as his knee would allow. When he pulled open the entrance door he was hit by an unexpected cold wind. He had failed to notice how the summer with its warmth and light had turned into fall and that bright leaves were covering the street in front of him. Pulling his gaze up from the bright orange street John noticed something. There was a man, tall and lean, with a long coat and a hat that could only be described as strange. John stopped blank because that man leaning against the wall by the Korean deli looked so familiar and yet out of place that it made John's heart and head hurt at the same time. He blinked to see if what he was seeing was some strange city mirage but when he opened his eyes the figure of Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, was still looking at him from under his ridiculous deerstalker. In a trancelike state of confusion and misty-eye John cursed his sadistic mind and its vivid imagination as he took the few steps down to the street, where he was suddenly hit by a young woman in a large coat and knotted hair and ambushed by a pretty woman in a tight skirt who started guiding him toward a black Sedan. He caught a final glimpse at his mind's impressive creation, who was still leaning casually by the specials-sign, before the pretty skirt-woman pushed him with unexpected strength into the car. At least he managed to wipe away the inexplicable tear that was rolling down his cheek before she climbed in after him.

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**Wow. This took a shamefully long time to post. I suck. Sorry! Anyway, I'm going to try and post a chapter sort ish regularly, depending on school work and stuff. I am gonna really, really, really try, I swear! **

**But yeah, I hope you like this first chapter of I Wait For You Always. I feel so sorry for John my little babyboo he s so lonely and sad and it makes me sad :( But he is fun to write so! **


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

John tapped a steady rhythm against the window of the car. His heart was still racing and traffic was moving far too slowly for his taste. His mind jumped quickly between the man on the street, with his unnerving similarity to his late best friend, and what was waiting for him once he arrived at Mycroft's. An emergency. But what help could a man like Mycroft Holmes, who had the secret service and an entire army at his disposal, want from a man like John Watson?

They stopped for another red light and John huffed in exasperation. The woman next to him glanced up from her BlackBerry but her fingers continued to type in a rapid pace.

'Take is easy. We'll be there soon,' she said and John looked at her in surprise.

'Oh, you talk? They don't usually talk,' he said, sounding ruder than he had intended. He was turning into a bitter old man, for god's sake. The woman didn't seem to mind though. In fact she placed her phone in her lap and turned completely toward him.

'They?' she asked with a surprisingly kind voice. It sounded happy, content. How utterly inappropriate for such a time! John shrugged.

'This isn't my first rodeo.' That made her laugh and John couldn't help but laugh with her. Quietly, of course. Respectfully. They sat in silence for several minutes after that, until they finally pulled up in front of a familiar building. John clutched his cane tighter and let it lead the way out of the car. He turned around to say goodbye to the woman but the car was already rolling up the street and he settled for a pathetic little wave in its general direction. Remembering why he was there, John hastened up the steps of the Diogenes Club and was let in by a trimmed and shiny butler. He was led passed the sitting room, which was just as quiet as it had been during all of his visits, and waved at the men holding delicate teacups and promptly pretending he didn't exist. The butler walked slowly up the stairs and John, who was the one with the actual limp, had to slow his pace so as not to pass the man.

'You know, I think I can manage to find my way on my own by now,' he ventured, but the man remained silent and slow as they made their way up to the second floor and the third door on the left; Mycroft's office. He knocked on the door and then left John standing outside as he continued down the hall. John could make out a faint 'Come in' from behind the oak door and he walked in.

The large room was just as clean and badly lit as John remembered it. There was a tea trolley by the window, but Mycroft was sitting behind his desk with a large pile of papers in front of him. John took a few steps closer and his cane banged loudly on the hardwood floor, causing Mycroft to look up. The corners of his mouth may have twitch ever so slightly at the sight of him, but it was too close to call.

'Hi,' John said awkwardly, hand twitching around the handle of his walking stick. Mycroft took the papers and placed them carefully in a drawer. When he looked back John was still standing in the middle of the room, unsure what to do with himself.

'Hello, John. Thank you for coming. Do have a seat,' Mycroft gestured toward a wooden armchair in front of the desk and John scrambled forward.

'Of course,' he said quickly, placing himself on the chair and his cane on the floor. 'What is the emergency?' Mycroft regarded him carefully. John knew that the clan of Holmes usually didn't take things as seriously as others or always value efficiency over their own strange minds, but he wondered why Mycroft wasn't more eager to spill the beans on what the hell had forced John out of the flat for something other than the supermarket on the corner. He felt a seed of annoyance start to grow in the bottom of his stomach.

'How are you, John?' Mycroft asked, which took him completely of guard. He blinked.

'What?'

'How are you?' The seed was growing faster, sprouting tiny branches and growing leafs that tickled his chest as John stared at Mycroft.

'I'm… fine, thanks,' he answered slowly. 'Is this really the time for pleasantries? What is the emergency?' The tree of nuisance was reaching upward and the branches poked at his lungs and made his fingers itch. Mycroft remained calm and composed.

'I received a call from Mrs. Hudson yesterday,' he said and the tree of annoyance froze to ice. _Not Mrs. Hudson. Not her too._

'Is she alright?' John's voice was shaky, and he swallowed hard to try and steady it. An array of unpleasant images flashed though his mind before he could stop them. Mrs. Hudson falling down the stairs when her hip was particularly bad. Mrs. Hudson being hit by a double-decker on her way to the park. Mrs. Hudson choking on a sip of Earl Grey while watching one of those detective shows on telly.

'Oh, she's quite well. Considering the circumstances of course. She was worried about _you_.' The tree was thawing fast, and growing fruits now, pounding against the inside of his skull with an angry force. John took a deep breath to calm himself, but it was no good.

'She was worried about me? That's the emergency? That Mrs. Hudson is worried about me?!' Mycroft didn't seem fazed by his outburst but simply knotted his fingers and rested them under his chin. John had a lot of experience in dealing with the Holmes brothers, not only the youngest of the two, but they still frustrated him to no avail. Except of course the plural wasn't applicable anymore. Mycroft frustrated him. Today more than usual. _Breathe, _he thought to himself. _Breathing is good_. John inhaled deeply, let the air slowly fade away from his lungs and then exhaled. Mycroft looked on, still unruffled.

'Well,' John said, forcing his voice into something close to a polite tone, 'if reassurance for Mrs. Hudson is all I came for, then I think I'll be off now. You can tell her I'm fine.' With that, John got up and walked to the door.

'You can't keep doing this, John.' Mycroft's voice was still calm, yet there was something in it that made John stop and turn toward him.

'Keep doing what?' he asked with his hand already on the door handle. Always ready to run.

'Cutting yourself off from the world. It's not good for you, John.' John laughed, but it was humorless and cold. There was nothing funny about the situation, there was only irony and pain and sadness.

'This coming from you?' he asked with a disdainful tone and Mycroft shrugged. John had never seen the man shrug before. It was foreign, like seeing a cat walk on its hind legs.

' I was never really part of the world,' Mycroft answered.

'Neither was I.' John left the room before Mycroft had a chance to say anything else about his wellbeing or his waste of a life. He hurried down the stairs, nearly knocking another butler over on his way. The air outside the Diogenes Club was cold and biting, and John realized that he was trembling as he filled his lungs to the brink of explosion. He looked up at the window he guessed would be Mycroft's, but he saw no one.

* * *

Sherlock lay on his back, head resting on his crumpled coat. A little screen looking like a GPS device was placed on his legs and his eyes scanned it lazily. The little red dot hadn't moved in hours, but Sherlock couldn't seem to be able to put it away. It remained, blinking at the same address where Sherlock had spent his afternoon. Two floors up and probably in the kitchen. Maybe reading a book, or drinking a 17th cup of tea.

"So, is this what you do all day?" Bunny was sitting cross-legged next to him. She had been quiet up until that point, simply watching him watching the screen. Sherlock hummed in confirmation. "Well, that's boring," she huffed and rearranged herself on the hard concrete.

"You're the one who insisted on coming along," Sherlock answered, not even bothering to sound annoyed.

"If I had known it would be such a drag I would have stayed away." But she didn't leave. Instead she lay down on the ground next to Sherlock and looked at the GPS. She frowned. "Why do you keep staring at that thing? It's not even moving!" Sherlock vaguely noticed Bunny's arm pressed against his own, but said nothing of it. It was quite nice, feeling the heat of someone else leak though his shirt and warming his skin. He missed it. Missed being touched and patted and embraced. Something as simple as Mrs. Hudson giving him a quick squeeze of the arm when he had refrained from putting a jar of fingernails in the fridge had brought him so much satisfaction that he only missed now that it was gone. Sherlock stared forward intently.

"It helps me think." Bunny kept quiet after that and Sherlock was thankful for it. There was no background noise that he had to drown out in the process of his thinking and it made everything so much easier. She simply remained next to him, pressing their sides together and looking at the screen just like he was. Every now and again he would notice her looking at him in the corner of his eyes, but he didn't comment on that either.

The sun had long since set when there came a faint cough from mere meters away. Sherlock looked up, and to his maybe not so big surprise, Molly was standing there with a pink coat blowing in the wind and a grocery bag in hand. She was staring at Bunny, who apparently had fallen asleep against his shoulder at some point.

"Sorry," she said, seeming quite flustered at something Sherlock didn't really understand. "I didn't realize you had company." The break in the silence that had fallen over the pair over two hours ago made Bunny wake with a start and sit up straight. There was a moment when the two women looked at each other, and Sherlock could see so many things being said through their looks that he couldn't hear. Then Bunny jumped to her feet and scrambled off into the night without a word or a look behind. Molly and Sherlock both watched her go and then Molly turned toward Sherlock who turned back to the screen.

"Who was she, then?" Molly asked in a voice attempting to resemble indifference but it was far too high-pitched to fool Sherlock or any human with proper ear function.

"A friend," he said. She nodded carefully and placed the plastic bag she was carrying on the ground. It made a clinking sound as it grazed the hard cement.

"Why was she in such a hurry? Did I interrupt something? I mean- I didn't mean to-"

"She's not very fond of people," Sherlock said to avoid Molly going into her usual state of awkward rambling. It was true, though. Sherlock had never seen Bunny in the company of anyone else, and as far as he knew she slept alone in a secluded part of a park near St Paul's. She had friends, the person assisting Sherlock in his job included, but she didn't seem to spend much time with any of them.

"She didn't seem to mind you." Sherlock shrugged, something he seldom did, as it most often served as far too vague of an expression to keep others from starting to talk again.

" I suppose I'm not people," he added instead. To his relief Molly decided to drop the subject and handed him the Tesco's bag.

"I brought you some food. I figured you might be hungry," she said with a warm smile. Sherlock glanced briefly into the bag. Chips, fried chicken, an apple and a bottle of coke. No opener.

"Thank you." Molly hesitated for a moment, and Sherlock picked up the apple and took a bite of it. It was bruised and yellow, but he hadn't eaten in two days so he chewed on anyway. Molly cleared her throat.

"I know you said that you don't mind living… here," she gestured at their surroundings, "but wouldn't you be more confortable staying in my spare? You said you didn't want to, I know, and it's quite small but at least it has a bed. And heating." Sherlock shook his head.

"I'm fine here, thanks," he muttered through a mouthful of fruit.

"You're living under a bridge!" Molly said and she seemed to even shock herself with her sudden outburst. He was indeed living under a bridge, but it was merely temporary. Besides, he actually quite liked it. It was empty since people rarely ventured into this part of London, it was quiet apart from the wind and the waves breaking against the bank, and it was safe. No one knew he was here, the only exceptions being Bunny because she was nosy and Molly because she brought him food. And to be frank she too was nosy, but she pretended to be _caring_.

"I am aware." Molly stood watching him for a full minute before she sighed.

"Alright then… I suppose I'll be on my way then," said and started for the main road.

"Hold on," Sherlock called after her and she stopped halfway up the little paved hill. Her jacket flew out behind her again like a cape in the strong wind. Sherlock wasn't looking of course, but had returned his eyes to the GPS. He cleared his throat. "Have you seen him?" he asked, and Molly didn't need to ask to know whom he meant. She shook her head even though Sherlock couldn't see it.

"No, not in a while," she said solemnly. "I spoke with him on the phone the other day, but I don't think he leaves home very much. Doesn't see people anymore." Sherlock didn't mention that John actually had left home today and had in fact seen someone, because it wasn't important.

"How did he sound, then?" he asked. Voice stable, not shaking and not interested. Molly shrugged.

"He sounded sad, and lonely. He's not as good at hiding it as you." Sherlock pointedly ignored her poke at him, but he had guessed as much when it came to John. He had never been good at keeping his emotions in check, and even when he did it was apparent that was what he was doing. Sherlock, on the other hand, had learnt early that displaying emotions only was a disadvantage.

"I see," he answered with a curt nod.

"He misses you," Molly ventured but Sherlock didn't hook the bait.

"Yes."

Maybe you could just let him know-"

"Thank you, Molly." And then she was gone, and Sherlock was alone with his monitor and his whirring brain. It had been foolish of him to ask about John, he didn't have time or mind space to think about exactly how sad and lonely he was. But he couldn't help it. He missed John as well, of course he did, and of course he didn't want to live under a bridge and get peed on by stray cats while he slept and live on chips from a Tesco's bag. He didn't want any of that, but it was necessary.


End file.
